


A Door (Swings Open)

by bran4ever



Category: Marvel
Genre: Angst, Charity Hawktion (Marvel) 2020, Clint Barton Feels, Fluff, M/M, Meet the Family, Phil Coulson Feels, Ultimatums, almost a marriage proposal, making mistakes because you love someone a lot, the agents actually get a holiday off
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-16 13:22:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28831890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bran4ever/pseuds/bran4ever
Summary: Phil takes Clint on a holiday trip to meet his mom. Phil isn't quite as average as he seems - and nor is his family.Also featuring: a little bit of old-fashioned manners, a BAMF who has regrets, and a leap of faith.
Relationships: (Past) Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers, Clint Barton/Phil Coulson
Comments: 3
Kudos: 69
Collections: Charity Hawktion 2020





	A Door (Swings Open)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Celticas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celticas/gifts).



> This fic was written for the Charity Hawktion 2020. Celticas wanted a Clint/Coulson fic where they are together and Clint goes to ask Phil's parents for permission to marry him and only then finds out that Peggy Carter is Phil's mum.

Clint was driving - not. Clint’s driving tended toward the escape-the-badguys sort. He was perfectly competent driver, but it was the kind of competent where most people needed copious amounts of Dramamine to be relatively comfortable. Of course, Phil Coulson was not most people. Clint not being allowed to drive on this particular roadtrip had nothing to do with Clint’s driving skills or the relative comfort of his passengers, but rather Phil’s car, which he had detailed especially for this trip.

As long as Phil was physically capable of doing driving Lola, no one else was allowed. Specifically not Clint. Phil would have a heart attack if he had to experience Clint driving Lola; just thinking about it gave him heart palpitations. If Phil was willing to have Lucky ride in Lola, Clint’s driving might be deemed acceptable – he always drove with the passenger’s comfort in mind, provided the passenger was Lucky – but Lola’s interior deserved better than dusty, tomato-sauce-covered mutts.

Here was the problem: Clint Barton was not a person who idled well. Clint Barton was not a person who knew how to be idle. Most of Clint’s existence was predicated on being useful, if not to others, than to himself. And in Clint’s mind, riding as a passenger on a road trip was not _being useful_ , and that was the problem.

“Soooooooooo how far is your mother’s house, again?”

Phil kept his sigh internal, in deference to Clint’s anxiety about meeting his mom for the first time. (He didn’t acknowledge his own anxiety about his mom meeting Clint for the first time.)

“We’re about two hours away. Do you need to stop?”

“No. No no. Are you sure you’re okay? We’ve been driving for forever; we could stop and get something to eat, let you take a break.”

This was one of the things Phil loved most about Clint – he respected Phil’s boundaries. It might have seemed stupid that Phil wouldn’t let anyone else drive Lola, but all Phil had needed to do was say, ‘No one drives Lola but me,’ and Clint had never since so much as intimated that he would or could drive the car.

Of course, Clint was almost definitely trying to stall.

“Worried, Barton?” Phil drawled.

Silence. Phil glanced away from the road for a moment – the line of Clint’s neck was tense as he stared out the passenger side window.

Phil’s lips thinned and he turned back to the road ahead.

“She’ll love you.”

“She’d be the first,” came the mutter from beside Phil.

Something seized in Phil’s chest. Not that he said it out loud much, but Phil had poured his heart out to Clint more than once during tense conversations. Clint was loved – Phil loved him, and even if it would break his heart to choose between his mother and Clint, Phil would never stop loving either of them.

Squeezing the wheel slightly, Phil stared determinedly ahead. Clint’s anxiety about being included and wanted in families wasn’t going away – it was going to be up to Phil to keep them level on this car ride-

-a hand landed on Phil’s right forearm – and Phil couldn’t look away from the car merging in front of them, but Clint’s thumb rubbed gently along the line of Phil’s ulna. And suddenly two hours didn’t seem so interminable after all.

*

Somewhere just outside city limits, the atmosphere shifted slightly in the car. Phil resisted the urge to tilt his head while he worked out what had physically changed. A moment later, it pinged – Clint’s breathing had gone sniper-steady. He took one hand off the steering wheel and flipped the radio on. A short scan later and quiet Christmas music was playing from Lola’s high-quality speakers.

Clint snorted.

“I miss the variety in holiday music.”

“Hmm?”

“In the circus. Everyone had different holiday music traditions.”

Phil’s eyebrows raised. That was- Clint making an effort. That was Clint making an effort to engage on a personal level, and Phil was so, so proud of him. A tension Phil hadn’t noticed creeping into his forehead and shoulders finally relaxed.

Phil’s breath caught; he saw Clint turning toward him, only to freeze when Phil flipped on his turn signal in the middle of a block.

“Easy, Barton,” he murmured.

“You’ve never asked me for the impossible, sir, don’t start now.”

And that wasn’t a request so much as a plea.

Phil pulled into the driveway, stopped Lola’s engine, and turned toward Clint. He was sitting rigidly straight with his hands curled into fists in his lap. Phil wasn’t sure if the emotion he felt on Clint’s behalf was mostly anger or sadness.

“Just be yourself,” he ordered, and then he opened the door and stepped out into the bracing chill of December in Virginia.

Behind him, Phil heard a thunk against the passenger side window, then the passenger door whooshed open and thudded shut again. Clint stepped into Phil’s periphery just behind his right shoulder.

He turned and pulled Clint’s left hand to the crook of Phil’s right arm.

“What about the bags?”

“Do you want to meet my mother while carting around travel luggage?” Clint’s hand spasmed where Phil was pinning it to his own arm.

“Doesn’t make logical sense to have to come back out for them.” That was muttered in the tone Clint used whenever Phil told him he didn’t have to make dinner every night they were home.

Phil pulled them to a stop. He turned to his partner and waited until Clint met his gaze evenly.

“You’re my partner. There is no work required of you to be accepted here.”

Slowly, Phil leaned in and rested his forehead against Clint’s, which was acceptable because the man was so hunched over.

“It’s okay,” he whispered.

They both drew in a slow breath. And then Phil turned and started toward the door. Clint fell into lockstep with him, and they stepped up the brick stair to stop in front of the frosted glass windows that flanked the big oak front door.

Phil knocked.

*

A shadow appeared in the window on the left. Phil jiggled his right arm slightly, and Clint sucked in a hiccupping breath. Phillip J Coulson closed his eyes, settled his shoulders, and dropped his work persona.

 _Click_.

Warm light poured out, and a beautiful woman with white hair and deep wrinkles in her aged face appeared in the doorway.

“Welcome home, Pip.”

Phil was absolutely certain Clint was mentally side-eyeing him. But-

“And welcome home, Clinton Francis Barton.”

-he wouldn’t be thinking about Phil’s childhood nickname for much longer.

Clint was still frozen, so Phil took control of the introductions.

“Mom, this is Clint. Clint, this is my mom, Margaret Carter.”

“ _Tch_ , it’s Peggy. Do _not_ call me Margaret.”

Startled, Clint said, “I wasn’t planning to call you anything other than ‘ma’am’, ma’am.”

Phil’s mom laughed, and Phil felt his eyes turn up at the corners.

“Wait. _Peggy. Carter?!_ ”

“Oh, dear. Phillip?”

“Hi, mom. It’s a little chilly tonight; how about I just grab the bags now so we don’t have to put on our jackets again?”

“ _Phillip_.”

Phil’s chest tightened and his hands shook as he turned and trudged back to the car unsteadily.

Someone touched Phil’s shoulder. “-lip. Phillip,” faded through the buzzing in his ears.

Abruptly, the world around Phil snapped back into focus. He twisted around, away from his mother’s hands holding his, and his shoulder brushed someone else’s.

Clint. Clint was at his back, keeping watch while Phil had his mini-breakdown. Fuck. Clint. The ground between his two most precious people looked incredibly interesting to Phil right now.

“Phillip.” His mother’s thumbs chafed over the back of his hands. Phil’s vision blurred a little, and he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment.

“Mom. I’m-“

Warm weight pressed carefully against his back. Clint leaned against Phil enough for Phil to feel bulwarked, but not so much their balance or ability to move swiftly was compromised. It was a fine line, and one they had fine-tuned during stressful missions and long meetings over many years.

And yet. And yet Phil had never explained his mother to his most steadfast partner. His mother, who was the easiest part to explain.

A deep, shuddering breath raddled through Phil’s chest. He gripped his mom’s hands tighter for just a moment, then turned to meet her gaze.

“It’s cold, mom.”

She just looked at him.

“Okay, Phil. Okay.”

Now for the part that made shame slither down the back of his neck.

“Clint.” He finally turned to look at the man he loved.

Clint had on his Federal Agent Approached By Unknown Asset face. It was a very specific face – blank, calculating, vigilant.

Phil stamped down in his first instinct. He packed away his own Agent In Public face, and pulled out his Agent Debriefing Asset Over Dinner face. Phil had a lot of Agent faces.

Agent Debriefing Asset Over Dinner: calm, shoulders down and open, face relaxed from its usual placid mask to wearied-but-open, hands allowed to drop away from his body, but still holding his weight on the balls of his feet. Prepared, but open. Controlled, but calm. Debriefing, but with personality.

“Ready for the sit-rep, Clint?” The use of his given name was deliberate. Barton, the asset, would face whatever task asked of him so long as it didn’t violate his personal code or unduly risk his wellbeing. Clint - his partner, his friend, his love - could walk away from anything that he didn’t want – anything discomforted or disgusted him.

Phil disgusted himself.

As he held eye contact with Clint, the man deliberately blew out a slow breath and resettled his shoulders in a slow shrug.

Then, a firm nod. Clint’s gaze moved to Phil’s mom.

“It _is_ cold,” he said, with a small, wry smile. “The bags can wait a bit – let’s get you inside, ma’am.”

“I believe I told you to call me Peggy, Clint.” Phil could hear the strong amusement in her voice. “And we won’t be leaving the bags out here. I plan to keep you both for as long as you can be spared, which Marcus assures me will be at least three days.”

Clint stood stock-still, still surprised by Phil’s mom’s welcome, Phil thought with resignation.

But Clint was forever surprising Phil with his resilience. He smiled brightly at Phil’s mom and turned toward the car.

“Bags inside! Got it!”

Well. Clint always did do better with clear operational layout.

*

“CAPTAIN MOTHER-FUCKING AMERICA???

“Well. That does explain the discrepancies in your birth records.

“Wait. Does Steve know his healing can be passed on genetically???

“Are there more semi-immortal little Steves???

“WAIT YOU’RE A LITTLE STEVE.”

Phil sighed – and smiled.

*

Clint, Phil, and Phil’s mom were in the kitchen getting ready for breakfast. Agent Carter – Phil’s _mom_ was preparing omelets, bacon, and biscuits with an economy of movement Clint hoped he would have if he ever reached her age – unlikely – the getting older bit, not the economy of movement bit.

“Clint, would you be a dear and pull the baking tray from underneath the oven?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Clint said as he jerked forward toward the range/oven combination.

Phil’s mom snorted quietly.

“I won’t be breaking you of that address, will I?”

“Probably not, ma’am, but if anyone could, it would definitely be you.”

Clint’s hands felt shaky, but he learned to flirt when he was ten years old trying to swindle older women – and men – out of a little more cash during their visit to the circus. He flirted as easily as breathing – at least when he wasn’t actually interested.

“Oh, dear.”

Clint stood upright quickly, twisting toward Phil’s mom with the baking tray held slightly in front of him.

“I’m afraid I’m out of jam,” Phil’s mom said wryly.

She turned away from the cupboard she was looking in and met Clint’s eyes with a steady, firm look. He colored slightly. He couldn’t afford to be ashamed of his reflex to assume a fight would break out at any moment, but it felt wrong here in his partner’s parent’s house. He felt wrong here.

“Phil, you remember where the local freetrade store is, right?”

Clint saw Phil’s face go just slightly tense at the corners of his eyes.

“Sure, mom,” he said, easy as you please. “Does Mrs. Greeneth still knit those hats with the ridiculously large pompoms? Clint, you’ll get a kick out of those.”

“Everyone should be subjected to those pompoms at least once,” Phil’s mom agreed, “but I’m afraid I need to borrow Clint this time. Rolling out the biscuit dough is harder on my old joints than it used to be.”

Phil was quiet for a moment.

“Clint’s an amazing baker, though I’ve never known you to let anyone else touch your biscuits before they’re finished, mom.”

Agent Carter told her son, “Go to the store, Phil.”

And then, in light tone that nearly gave Clint whiplash, “I promise I won’t bake your partner into the apple pie.”

“Apple pie?” Phil questioned, looking like Agent Coulson on a hunt – that is, mostly the same calm and placid as he always looked, but he tilted his head down slightly so no one could easily see the bright attention in his eyes.

“Indeed. And if you want any you won’t hold up breakfast any longer.”

Clint watched Phil. And Phil, his reliable, loyal, badass motherfucker partner – in all sense of the words – turned to Clint.

Clint smiled, and rolled up the shirtsleeves of his flannel shirt.

“How thick does the dough need to be, ma’am?”

“Less thick than your head if you’re still calling me ‘ma’am’.”

Laughter burst out of Clint from deep in his chest. He grabbed the counter for support and laughed until tears ran from his eyes. When he looked up, Phil was wrapping his scarf around his neck and watching Clint carefully.

“I want blackberry!” he called.

His only response was a scoff.

“Be back in thirty, mom,” Phil called as the door shut behind him. Clint watched out the window over the kitchen sink as he pulled out of the driveway and drove away.

Peggy Carter turned back toward the cupboard and pulled out a jar of blackberry jam.

“So now that he’s gone-“

Clint’s hands went cold, and he numbly reached out for the stool at the breakfast bar. He swiped once, twice, then it was there in his hands.

*

“-int. Clint! Agent Barton!”

Clint took a deep, sucking breath. The ringing in his ears softened from the deafening jangle of having nearly passed out to Clint’s normal hearing loss levels.

He took stock of his surroundings. There was a soft bath robe wrapped around his shoulders, and he was sitting on a wooden stool. Beyond his hands, which were being held by someone who was not Phil, the stool rested on tile flooring.

The hands were old, swollen and wrinkled with age. And familiar, somehow. The tapering of the index and middle finger reminded Clint of Phil’s hands. He rubbed his right thumb against the other person’s left palm. And they had gun callouses in the same places.

“Clint?” a voice called, questioning, but firm and controlled.

Ah.

“Ma’am.”

“I do recall having asked you to call me Peggy, Clint.” She paused for a moment. “Or would you prefer Barton? We certainly don’t know each other well, yet, though I hope that will be corrected in the very near future.”

Clint tensed and released as she made her slightly pensive commentary.

“Clint, please, ma’am. Um. Peggy?”

A short moment passed, and Clint looked up through his fringe to check her reaction.

She had a wry smile twisting her lips, but her eyes were gentle.

“Call me whatever makes you most comfortable, Clint,” she finally said. “I want you to be comfortable.”

That had the ring of truth to it, and Clint hunched his shoulders over, ashamed again at his complete lack of skills with familial relations.

Phil’s mom – Peggy, clicked her tongue lightly and used his shoulder to push up from where she was leaning over to look in Clint’s face. She walked to the refrigerator and pulled out a loaf of bread.

Clint huffed. So that’s where Phil got that habit from.

“Toast and jam? Just to hold us over until Phil gets back.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Clint couldn’t help but smile. Phil would know immediately that he’d been sent away. His eyebrows suddenly pulled down, and he pulled his lip between his teeth.

“I don’t think he knew. I hid the jam last night for this express purpose. I know a man on a difficult mission when I see one. I figured we might need some space so I could corner you.”

Startled, Clint looked over toward Peggy where she was now loading four pieces of bread into a toaster.

“Open this, would you?” she said, holding the jam jar out toward Clint.

“Yes, ma’am - Peggy,” Clint said, as he slid off the stool.

The jam jar didn’t want to open, even with judicious application of Clint’s biceps. It probably had something to do with the way his hands were shaking too much to get a good grip on the lid.

Clint ran the lid of the jar until the hot water in the kitchen sink.

“I made a mistake, once, with Phil.”

“Ma’am? I, uh-“

“Just listen.”

Clint shut his mouth.

“I made a mistake once. Clint brought home a young man, just after he started college. Phil was always so quiet, but he had such determination, and it was starting to show through. I had been so worried for so long about him getting run over by the people around him. He had – has – such a big heart. A heart like that gets a person taken advantage of, and I worried about Phil being away from me, where I couldn’t monitor his moods. I caught several dysfunctional friendships when Phil’s mood started getting morose and self-defeating. Though I still had to wait until he was ready to talk about it with me before I could really help.

“So. When Phil brought home that boy…” she trailed off.

“He was – thoughtless. Not cruel, necessarily, just oblivious to how absolutely wonderful my child is. You know, I think. I can see it in your eyes.”

Peggy meets Clints eyes for a moment, then turns her head back down toward the toaster. It dings, and she pulls two plates out of the cabinet above her and transfer the toast on then.

“That boy talked over Phil, talked all about himself, and _laughed_ when he saw Phil’s comic book collection.”

Clint drew in a sharp breath.

 _“Exactly._ You understand, then?”

“Yeah,” Clint said, roughly.

Peggy exhaled explosively.

“So. I made a mistake. I was perfectly polite to Phil’s boy. And when he left, I told my son he was wasting his time. I told he was worth more than the way that boy treated him. Phil, of course, defended his choice, and told me he could date whoever he wanted. I agreed, and I – I said he could waste his time, but he shouldn’t waste mine, and he was not to bring anyone else home to me unless they were worthy of my son.”

The room was still for a long, and Clint hardly dared to breathe.

“I knew as soon as I looked in his eyes that I’d made a mistake, of course. Phil dislikes ultimatums for a reason. He takes them seriously. He never brought home another date after that one. And then – well, and then Phil was forty and he looked thirty. He was fifty and he barely looked thirty-five. My son has gone through so much life alone, and I’ve had to live with the part I’ve played it keeping it that way.”

Clint’s throat burned, and a soft, broken noise escaped him. Peggy picked up the toast and walked toward the breakfast counter.

“So. When I say you are special to my son, I want you to understand just _how_ special. And if you ever use his regard for you to hurt him, I will make you regret it ten times more than I regret the way I reacted to Phil back then.”

She set the plates down on the counter with a sharp, controlled click.

Clint’s breath burst out of him in a broken, sobbing laugh.

“I want to marry him. I’m going to ask him to marry you. I begged and bartered and bribed him into meeting you because I wanted to ask your permission to marry him.”

The confession comes out hoarse and tattered, muffled under the sound of the running water while Clint stares unseeing at the jam jar still warming up. The water was getting uncomfortable to hold his hand in, but Clint couldn’t move, couldn’t look away from the place where the water streamed over the seam between the glass and the metal lid of the jam jar.

Peggy reached over his shoulder and turned the tap off. She took the jar out of his hand and dried off with a hand towel. They stood, hip to hip, looking out the window over the sink. Phil’s car turned into the driveway, and Clint finally turned to look at Peggy Carter.

She was crying. Her hands were twisted up in the hand towel, and she was crying, but she had a smile full of relief and something else on her face. Clint couldn’t quite identify the emotion, but it didn’t feel bad.

So Clint Barton decided to trust that Phil Coulson’s mother was every bit as _everything_ as Phil Coulson, and he took a leap of faith:

“May I have your permission to marry your son?”

And, softly, still with that smile full of emotion on her face, Peggy Carter replied:

“Yes. Of course, Clint. I would be so proud to have you as my son, also.”

And that had the ring of truth to it.


End file.
